


Fandot Creativity Night

by Glowbug



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Drabbles, Fandot Creativity, Finnemore February, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/pseuds/Glowbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally for Finnemore February on Tumblr; now, Fandot Creativity meets every month to make cool fandot art and fics! BRILLIANT!</p><p>Un-beta-ed, unedited drabbles ahead! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Banjo and Balloons

A sour chord.

“Haaaaaaaappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRTHDAY dear MUUUH-UUUUUUUUUUUUUM…”

“Good heavens, Arthur, what are you doing?”

“Oh, hello Douglas. You know it’s Mum’s birthday tomorrow, right?”

“Dare I assume that, instead of a journey to Sink-in-Hell, you are instead preparing her a birthday serenade?”

“Yeah! It’ll be brilliant!”

A shout from the flight deck: “Douglas, what is he doing?”

“It would appear, Martin, that our faithful steward is endeavoring to teach himself banjo.”

“Could he not teach himself in the galley, please? I can’t hear ATC.”

“Sorry, Skip!”

“If you’re determined to nurture your musical gifts, Arthur, perhaps we should move you to the cabin.” Footsteps. “There. Also, I couldn’t help but notice your fingering. If you _really_ want to play banjo, you hold it like this… and strum like this.” A much more melodious chord.

“Wow! I never knew you could play banjo, Douglas!”

“I’ve picked up a chord or two in my time.”

(intercom on) “D-DOUGLAS! HELP!”

“Whatever is the matter, Martin?”

“It-it’s the flight deck locker—it’s filled with balloons, and they’re escaping!!!”

“Oh no, Skip, those were for Mum’s party!”

_“Escaping?"_

“Th-they’re helium, and they’re floating around everywhere, and please help!”

“Arthur, put aside the banjo for a moment. We have a captain to rescue.”

“Brilliant!”


	2. Dragons and Cookies

Carolyn wakes to the unmistakable sound of Arthur, in the kitchen, humming.

Making her way downstairs, she is greeted by a flour-coated Snoopadoop. “Oh, dear… Arthur!”

“Morning, Mum!” Snoopadoop darts back into the kitchen, yipping happily. Carolyn follows. Arthur is sitting at the kitchen island, feet dangling from a stool, in what looks to be the eye of a baking hurricane. The jet planes on his footie pajamas are only just visible under a layer of flour. He has rolled out a batch of what may or may not be gingerbread dough and is cutting out shapes as if he has no other care in the world.

“Arthur, light of my life… _why_ are you making cookies at half five in the morning?”

“Well, I woke up, and I was hungry, and then I found the dragon and the unicorn and the aeroplane cookie cutters in the drawer, and what good are brilliant cookie cutters if you don’t make cookies with them?”

It is _entirely_ too early to argue with Arthur’s especial brand of logic. “Have you forgotten you have a flight today?” she asks instead.

“Oh no, I thought this might be a good finish, y’know, to go with the catering I did!”

“Then I suggest you put them in the oven before our pilots arrive, dear heart. And put on a pot of coffee, will you? I need a bath.” She looks down at their whiter-than-usual cockapoo. “As does Snoopadoop.”

“Righto, Mum!” Arthur jumps up, leaving a small cloud of flour in his wake, and reaches for the coffee tin. Carolyn scoops up Snoopadoop.

“We’ll be upstairs—and Arthur, _do_ remember to wash up before you put on your uniform.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet takes place the morning of the flight to Abu Dhabi, if anyone was wondering. :)


	3. Moustaches

Arthur leans forward, studying his reflection carefully until his nose bumps into the mirror. "Oops."

A knock on the door. "Arthur?" Herc calls. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, 'm fine!" Arthur quickly splashes water on his face to take off the remaining shaving cream.

"Well, your mum says we're leaving for the airfield in ten minutes."

"Thank you Herc!" He dries his face and looks in the mirror one last time. He's not really sure how long it takes to grow one of these... but he doesn't think it's there yet.

* * *

 

When they arrive at the airfield, Douglas is already there. "Good heavens! Can it be that Sir, Mr. Sir, and Sir Jr. are actually _late_?"

"That will be quite enough, Douglas," Mum responds. "We may have transformed into an exceptionally well funded company, but that does not mean I am above docking your salary."

Douglas only smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. Mum disappears into her office and Herc runs off to file the flight plan for the day, leaving Arthur alone with his new skipper. Brilliant.

"Hey Douglas, can I ask you a question?"

Douglas sets down the cup, smiling at him. "Of course, Arthur. I pride myself on having answers to as many questions as possible."

"Well, ah... how long does it take to grow a moustache?"

Douglas's eyes briefly bug out, then he studies Arthur's face. "Good heavens, you're actually attempting one, aren't you?"

"Yeah..." Arthur hangs his head. "I thought maybe it would make me look older."

"That's not something you hear every day," Douglas remarks. "It seems the vast majority of the world wants to look _younger_."

"Yeah, but..."

"Might this have anything to do with Mr. Birling?"

"How did you know?"

"Because, quite simply, you were obliged to spend most of the flight with him day before last and you've been perfectly deflated ever since. What on earth did he say to you?"

Arthur shrugs. "Well, we hit that turbulence, you see, and I was trying really hard not to spill his whiskey but I kind of did and... well, he got very shouty and talked for a long time about hating to be served by a twelve-year-old." He sighs. "He really sounds like Dad sometimes."

Douglas's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Well, in answer to your question, Arthur, I believe a full-fledged moustache takes perhaps a week or two. It's been some time since I experimented with them myself, of course. That said, however, I feel it's only right to tell you that Mr. Birling clearly has no idea what he's talking about."

"You really think so, Douglas?"

"Indeed. OJS Air would not be half the company it is without its loyal steward and his... youthful vigor. Seriously, Arthur, we'd have folded years ago without you."

"But I'm not very good at doing something clever and making everything fine..."

"Come now. We can't all be sky gods--someone has to supply the tea and coffee and strawberry ice lollies. Someone has to be on hand for the pilots to tease, to share pineapple juices with. _Someone_  has to be the one to think of GERTI as the Great Wall of China. And that person is you, Arthur, moustache or no moustache."

Arthur feels a grin, the first in days, spreading across his face. "Brilliant!"

Douglas returns the smile as Mum's office door opens.

"Thank you, Douglas!" Arthur says.

Mum gives them both an odd look. "Douglas, can it be that our master of sarcasm has actually displayed a moment of sentiment?"

" _Sentiment_?" Douglas says. " _Me_? On _Valentine's Day_? What sort of person do you take me for?"

Arthur and his mum exchange a secret smile.


	4. Stuck

"Where is Martin?"

"Who can predict the movements of the great Sir?"

"Douglas, I've told you: if anyone is Sir, _I_ am Sir. And seeing as our captain has succeeded in surpassing even _you_ in lateness today, I seriously doubt he has earned any honorifics. Arthur, hasn't he answered his phone?"

"Sorry, Mum—it just keeps going to voicemail."

"Bah!"

"More coffee, Carolyn?"

"I don't need coffee, I need a straight shot of twenty-five-year-old Talisker!"

"That can be arranged, you know..."

The door opens to reveal a drenched, muddy, utterly miserable Martin.

"Good heavens, Martin, what happened to you?!"

"My van—"

"No—! Stop. Stay exactly where you are, Martin, before you drip puddles all over the floor of my Portakabin. Arthur, see if you can't find Martin some towels."

"Righto, Mum!" Arthur digs into a box, producing an armful of cheap towels which he proceeds to wrap around Martin until the latter somewhat resembles an Egyptian mummy.

"Now, Martin. Sit down and tell us why you are an hour late in deplorable condition."

Martin sighs. "It's my van... it's stuck in the mud halfway to the airfield. The engine's all right, it's just the tires keep spinning. After a half hour or so nobody had come by so... I thought I'd better walk the rest of the way."

"Why didn't you call a tow truck, Skip?"

"Because, as it happens, I have to pay rent tomorrow and I haven't been paid for this week's removal jobs yet. It'll be fine; I'll just have to go get it once the ground dries out."

"Oh! We could help you push!"

"Arthur, make yourself useful and brew Martin some tea. The last thing I need is a pilot with hypothermia."


	5. Socks




	6. Inside the cupboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first CP ficlet in, like, a year… wow…

“Ooh! Douglas! Let’s get these for Skip too!”  
Douglas rolled his eyes (waiting until Arthur was turned away, naturally) but obediently pushed the shopping cart over to the marshmallows. Arthur plunked a bag in and raced ahead to the next aisle.  
 _This is not what I meant when I said, “Arthur, why don’t we go shopping for Martin’s birthday present?”_  
An hour later, Arthur huffed and puffed under a pile of brown paper bags as Douglas let them into the attic flat with the spare key he’d “borrowed” from Carolyn. “I seem to recall his kitchen is over this way, Arthur. …No, follow my voice. …No, stand still and I’ll take your arm. This way.”  
Arthur set the bags on the counter with a loud huff. “Phew!”  
Douglas opened the nearest cupboard, which, as they’d expected, was empty even of dust. “All right, Arthur. Martin’s due home from his van job in two hours. Your mother assured me she’ll call when he passes the airfield and I believe Herc is still icing the cake, which leaves the rest to us. Shall we unload the bounty?”  
 _“Brilliant!”_  
Arthur began to unload chips, marshmallows, and an assortment of more practical canned goods into the cupboard.  
Rather silly, but it was comforting to know that Martin would be spending the next several weeks with not a baked potato in sight.


	7. The Fantastic No. 1

For the week of her honeymoon, Mum did an astonishing thing. (Arthur couldn’t decide whether it was brilliant or not.) She cancelled all of MJN’s flights and went off on a trip, with Herc, on a _train_.  
  
Arthur decided that trains were definitely brilliant. Not seeing Mum for a week, however, was not brilliant. (Weeks later, she would tell him that not seeing him for a week was not anywhere near as brilliant as she’d hoped. He decided that was a compliment.) But Arthur and Snoopadoop ended up staying with Douglas, and then Emily’s mum had the flu so they got to spend the entire week with her. Arthur taught Emily how to play Top Trumps and one night the three of them made spaghetti. (Douglas insisted on supervising—something about avoiding a pot of Mainly Noodle Thing—but it turned out the spaghetti was brilliant and very tasty.)  
  
On the day the happy couple was due to return, Douglas and Arthur arrived at the airfield early so Douglas could fill out the flight plan while Arthur hung up streamers. He was just finishing when he heard the familiar rumble of Mum’s car outside.  
  
Carolyn Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright _waltzed_ into the portacabin. “Mum!” Arthur yelled, and ran to hug her.  
  
Douglas looked up from the paperwork with a slow smile. “Ah, Her Majesty returns. Welcome back, Mrs. Shipwright.”  
  
Mum tried to glare at him but broke into a huge smile instead. “Oh, hush, before I change my mind about promoting you.” Nevertheless, she patted Arthur on the shoulder and floated past into her office.  
  
Arthur gave Douglas a stunned smile, because Mum never acted like that, _ever_.  
  
“I do believe we have just witnessed a first in Carolyn history,” Douglas tells him, smirking. “The storm scale has dropped to the all-time low… of one.”


	8. Blanket

Halfway through making _another_ round of peanut butter and seedless grape jelly sandwiches, Carolyn noticed the kitchen was very quiet.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
She turned around. His chair was vacant.  
  
She checked his room. Empty. The front yard _and_ the back. Empty. She started at the attic and worked her way down. No Arthur.  
  
She descended the stairs to the basement as quickly as she dared. She was _not_ praying, she did not pray for _anyone_ , much less—  
  
“Arthur! There you are, silly child!”  
  
The six-year-old looked up from where he was huddled against the dryer. “Mum, isn’t Mr. Blankie dry _yet_?”


	9. Board game

Arthur takes great pleasure in setting up the Monopoly board.  
  
Skip always gets the hat token, since there isn’t a plane. Arthur keeps trying to mold little aeroplanes out of clay, but they never seem to come out quite right.  
  
Mum gets _extraordinarily_ grouchy if he gives her the iron, or the thimble, or the little spinning wheel. Something about traditional gender roles that Arthur doesn’t quite understand; he’s never used a thimble or a spinning wheel, but he quite likes ironing; shoving all the special pillows into the shoulders before he presses them so they don’t get wrinkles, filling up the steam tank. Anyway, he usually gives his mum the little fellow riding a horse. He looks sort of like he’s in charge of something important, and that’s Mum to a T.  
  
When Herc comes to play, Arthur gives him the little automobile, because it reminds him of Herc’s Mercedes. Douglas _would_ get the hat, but Skip has to have the hat, so Douglas gets the train instead. It’s an Old-West-y sort of train, so maybe it would stop at an Old-West-y sort of bar, like when Douglas and Arthur had pineapple juice in the Kilkenny airport. Besides, Douglas always buys up the railroads first.  
  
One time, Martin brings Theresa by and Arthur gives her the ship. It’s a very grand little ship, and Theresa says there’s no coast in Liechtenstein. A princess ought to get to have a grand ship once in a while.  
  
And Arthur? Arthur always, always takes the little dog. It reminds him of Snoopadoop, and if he has Snoopadoop, every game is brilliant, the ones where he goes bankrupt and the ones where he has every property covered in little buildings.  
  
Monopoly is brilliant.


	10. Magic

“Arthur, why, pray tell, are you looking sadly at your hat?”

“…I couldn’t find the rabbit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You see I thought I could be a magician… like Penn and Teller. They pulled a rabbit out of a hat on the telly the other night. Only I must not be very magical, because I can’t find the rabbit.”

“…Ah.”

“Douglas? Can _you_ pull a rabbit out of a hat?”

“Astonishingly, Arthur, I cannot. But I do know that the real magic of the trick is not in pulling the rabbit _out_ of the hat, but rather getting the rabbit _into_ the hat in the first place.”

“You mean the rabbit’s already got to be in the hat?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh. But I don’t have a rabbit. I was going to get one from the hat.”

“Yes; you see the problem.”

“Hmm.” (long silence) “Do you suppose it would still work if I put Snoopadoop in the hat?”


	11. Pancakes/"If I didn't have you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Arthur singing to the tune of the song:

Oh, if I had pancakes  
Like a million or two  
I’d feed everybody  
And I’d buy them quiche, too  
Because they are brilliant  
(They’re pancakes!)  
I’ll give them to you  
I wouldn't have nothin'  
If I didn't have you!


	12. Space/Time Travel

It all started when he read that book, you see. _The Time Machine._ But he thought Mr. H.G. Wells got it wrong; how could the future be like _that?_ It wasn’t brilliant at all! He hadn’t been able to stop crying until Mum reminded him that Mr. Wells had in all likelihood never been to the far future either, and was just making things up.

_Well._

Even Arthur could do better than that.

He had tried to read about it properly, but most of the books at the library had just made his head hurt. In the end, he had settled for hooking up an alarm clock to some parts from the robotics kit Dad had given him for some long-forgotten birthday. (He managed not to break the teeth off of any gears this time.) He set the whole thing in an old shoebox so it wouldn’t fall apart, packed up a bag of peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles (in case the food wasn’t as brilliant in the future), and a couple of apples to toss for good measure.

He went out to the airfield very early the next morning so that he could test it with no one around. It might not be safe, after all. He left a note in the portakabin: “Mum—visiting the future. Back soon. Love, Arthur.”

Then he sat down in the grass, a good distance from all the planes and buildings, and opened the shoebox and pressed the big red button.

And waited.


	13. Stir-fry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adding a few old ones from Tumblr that somehow never got on AO3! This one was just from chat, I think, and not creativity night, but hey.

Arthur Shappey, ladies and gentlemen; here seen making shoe-pastry cream puffs with pineapple and other fruits, and also stir-fry. (Fandot chat. Don’t ask.)


	14. Space

To boldly go where no airdot has gone before!


	15. Imagination

“Come with me… and you’ll be… in a _worrrrrrrld_ of pure imagination…”  
  
Martin halted in GERTI’s doorway, blinking.  
  
“Take a look, and you’ll see…” Far down the aisle, Douglas was hoovering—a job he had made no small fuss about accepting (even in the face of Hurricane Carolyn, wanting to get home and look after her flu-ridden son). And singing.  
  
“We’ll begin… with a spin…” Douglas spun the hoover around and came face to face with his captain. “Oh… hello, Martin.”  
  
“Hello…”  
  
For a moment, he thought Douglas might be embarrassed. Then his FO smiled.  
  
“Care to join the world of my creation? I haven’t started on cleaning the galley yet.”  
  
Martin chuckled and went to find the cleaning rags.


	16. Picnic/forever

Martin had planned the whole thing very carefully.

First, a visit home (because MJN was still home, in a way) and a whirlwind tour of the jewelers of Bristol, under Douglas’s smirking supervision.

Second, a carefully packed picnic lunch and a hired car; just an ordinary car, Theresa sometimes visited him in a limousine but it always seemed to attract paparazzi so she’d dialed that back of late. (Apparently it had taken several rounds of Top Trumps to convince Maxi that a member of the royal family did not _have_ to travel in the fanciest cars money could buy.)

Finally, however, it was just the two of them, and a spread of roast beef sandwiches, and a sunny alpine meadow.

And he found himself stammering his way through every sentence.

“Martin,” Theresa said at last, “this has been a wonderful outing, you know…”

“I, uh, er, yes? Thank you?”

She laughed. “I think I should be thanking you! But perhaps there was something special you had in mind for today?”

He felt his ears turn crimson as he reached into his pocket for the little velvet box.

“I—I was wondering if you—will you—“

“Martin?” Her teasing tone faded.

He opened the box.

She kissed him.

It wasn’t the sort of proposal he’d been expecting. But it was all right. They were sticking by each other now, forever.


	17. mismatched/paper




	18. drones/kitchen

_Vee-rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!_  
  
For the hundredth time, Wendy silently rued the day her husband had given Martin that remote control flying toy. It zoomed all around the kitchen, circling her until she swatted at it with her wooden spoon.  
  
“Mu-um!” a reedy ten-year-old voice moaned from beyond the doorway. “You’re gonna get pasta sauce on it!”  
  
“The kitchen is a no-fly zone!” she called back, and returned to stirring the sauce in question.  
  
“But muuuuuuuuuuum, I’m a fighter pilot! I have to boldy venture into enemy territory!” The toy plane zoomed up and down until she swatted at it again, this time making a direct hit. Martin howled.  
  
Wendy smiled as the now-sauce-spattered plane fluttered weakly out of her kitchen. “If you fly into enemy territory, sweetheart, you have to be ready to get shot down once in a while.”


	19. nineteen/biting

*intercom on* “Arthur, you may want to strap in; it looks like we’ve just hit some tur—“ *very loud clatter from the cabin*

“Good heavens!”

“…Do you want to go check on him, or shall I?”

“As you’re in control, I may as well.” *flight deck door opens and closes; footsteps*

“…Hello, Douglas. Could you give me a hand up, please?”

“Naturally. Do I take it you’re attempting to add seats to GERTI with… folding chairs?”

“How did you know?!”

“Well, the pile of half-collapsed folding chairs, added to the crash we just heard, is something of a strong indicator. Are you all right?”

“Um, yeah, I think so. I’ll just go in the galley and get a plaster. Could you help me stack these out of the way? I guess it’s no good having nineteen seats if they just fall over when we hit turbulence, is it.”

“No, I’m afraid not. It was an inspired idea, however.”

“But then will I not get to be steward of the aeroplane anymore?”

“…Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

“Well, everyone keeps saying that the minimum number of seats is nineteen, and—“

“No, Arthur, rest assured, your job is quite secure.”

“You really think so, Douglas?”

“I’m positive. For one thing, there are certainly no other fish biting at the line, and for another, no one else at MJN is remotely capable of leading the monthly apple-tossing exercises.”

“Brilliant!”


End file.
